


the song remains the same (my love)

by jackiefreckles



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellarke, Depression, Heartbreak, Suicide Attempt, angst holy shit, canon character death, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:16:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28682427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackiefreckles/pseuds/jackiefreckles
Summary: Three years after a painful breakup, Clarke and Bellamy clash over Octavia's future.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 19
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic deals with mental health and contains a suicide attempt with a graphic description. Please, please, please do not read any further if that could possibly be triggering to you. 
> 
> I feel comfortable addressing mental health as a person who was diagnosed with bipolar type I many years ago, and who has spent a large portion of her life managing their mental health, but this fic does not give specific advice nor should you get advice about dealing with your mental health from fictional sources.

_Clarke is eighteen, fresh off her senior year, and to Bellamy she looks like Rapunzel. Her long golden curls are braided in a complicated style, and when Octavia saw it she immediately begged Clarke to replicate it on her own thick dark hair. Clarke isn’t patient but she is kind, and she and Octavia sit on their knees in their dark dresses as she winds the younger girl’s dark tresses into something similar._

_Octavia is fifteen. She has eyes like jade-green saucers, always on the verge of tears lately, and she is at the age where her limbs are best described as coltish. She is pretty and petulant, will be beautiful soon enough--Bellamy has no clue what to do with her at the best of times, and this? Is not the best of times._

_Bellamy is twenty-one, and today is the second-worst day of his life. He wishes he’d gotten a haircut, wonders how he’ll pay Jake Griffin back for the suit he’s wearing. On the first-worst day of Bellamy’s life, Jake and Clarke showed up at his summer job to tell him that his mother was dead. An aneurysm, the paramedics thought, and the coroner confirmed it. No way of knowing, Abby Griffin told him gently. Out of the blue._

_The thing about small towns is that you know everybody and everybody knows you. So even though Octavia, Clarke, and Bellamy are stair-stepped in age, they have been friends since their diaper days. Aurora Blake was Jake Griffin’s admin assistant for twenty four years, since Griffin Enterprises was a tiny tech startup, and Jake and Abby always said The Blakes were family. Now they’re getting their chance to prove it, and The Griffins have closed ranks around Octavia and Bellamy. It was Clarke and Abby who picked Octavia up from her internship that awful day, and Jake who took Bellamy about the sad business of funeral homes and caskets, lawyers and life insurance policies._

_Octavia has slept in Clarke’s pink-princess room for the past four nights, and Bellamy hasn’t had the heart to try to convince her to come home. Home is lonely, home is sad, and he wishes that he could curl up in Clarke’s canopy bed and hide from his responsibilities, too._

_Abby pokes her head in:_

_“The car will be here in ten minutes--” a small noise of alarm-- “Octavia, your dress is terribly wrinkled. Come with me, I’ll steam it.” She gives Clarke a motherly glance. “Yours will be a wreck soon, too. Don’t sit on the floor like a toddler.” She’s all business, but there is a tenderness when she puts her arm around Octavia’s shoulders. “Bellamy, stand up, let me give you the once over.”_

_She deems his appearance acceptable, though he notices the way her eyes linger on his dark curls. He needed that haircut a month ago, but it’s too late now._

_Clarke leans back on her heels and he offers her a hand, pulling her to her feet. She sits next to him on the bed. She has been waiting for him to break for days, it seems, always regarding him with worried blue eyes and small touches on his elbow or shoulder. She never says anything pointed, focusing most of her attention on his sister. Clarke has always kept Octavia under her wing, and Bellamy loves her for it._

_He loves her for a lot of things. But he can’t think about that now._

_Clarke sits next to him on her rose colored comforter and takes advantage of their moment alone to ask,_

_“Bellamy, you okay?” She straightens his tie. “Is there anything I can do...did you eat breakfast?”_

_He leans forward until their foreheads touch and closes his eyes._

_“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits._

_Clarke tangles her fingers in his hair._

_“Do what?”_

_“Everything, anything. I’m not an adult, not really. And taking care of Octavia?!?” He struggles to breathe, closes his eyes. “My mom was so patient. She understood Octavia. But we barely go a day without fighting. What am I supposed to do?”_

_“Hey,” Clarke intertwines their fingers, giving his a squeeze. “We’re going to do this together. It’s always felt like Octavia is my sister, too. That’s not going to stop.”_

_Bellamy sighs, and kisses Clarke’s knuckles._

_“Promise me?”_

_“Together.” Clarke says again._

_“Together, then.”_

_It is a promise they don’t break for many years._

The door is the same. Clarke painted it an insane shade of teal in a fit of pique three days after moving in; the landlord grumbled but didn’t ask her to change it. He has a soft spot for Clarke, Roan does, always rushing to fix the sink, blushing over proffered bottles of wine at Christmas. 

Now the doorjamb is scraped and scuffed, one too many slams and kicks starting to show, and Bellamy knocks hard before he can talk himself out of it. He has to see her, he does, because--

_I’m not selfish. I’m not._

Clarke pulls the door open. Her hair is chaos, Botticelli curls tugged and pulled into a static halo. A white vee-neck tee falls off her shoulder, shredded jeans, bare feet with purple toenail polish. Her blue eyes are soft when she regards him, but her tone is sour.

“What are you doing here?”

Her face says it plainly: what are you doing here, _now_?

“I had this insane fight with Octavia--”

“Ah, the more things change, the more they stay the same.” There’s a twist to her lips. She’s laughing at him, and it feels so normal. 

He runs over her sarcasm, takes a tiny step closer, “--I just started walking and there was no one…” _Oh God, don’t say that_ , “I just found myself here.”

_There was no one I wanted to see more than you. No. There was no one I wanted to see but you._ That’s the truth. 

Clarke gives him a small nod, summons him inside with a jerk of her chin. 

Raven’s voice cuts through the hall:

“Octavia called--I’m gonna go over there. She just had a ripper of a fight with--”

She emerges, blinking owlishly, her face blanching at the sight of him. 

“Bellamy.” she finishes. “What are you doing here?”

What are you doing here, _now_?

“Hey, Reyes. Um, I just had a ripper of a fight with Octavia…” 

This was funnier in his head--Raven doesn’t even smile.

Her eyes meet Clarke’s. 

“Is this okay with you?” she says. “I can stay…”

“No, no,” Clarke waves an arm. “You deal with Blake the Younger. I’ll take this one.”

Raven shifts, hitching her bag over her shoulder, looking between the two of them. 

“Some things never change, I suppose,” she says faux-casually, “talk some sense into him. I’m sure this is his fault.”

Like things always are, he supposes she is thinking, and she is probably right.

Clarke gestures to the couch and digs through the battered fridge as she confidently prompts him: “So, go ahead, what happened with Octavia?”

She sounds like he was here yesterday, like it is one of the countless other times he showed up at her doorstep and she’d take one look at his face and find his favorite beer in the fridge and listen for hours to a litany of charges against the object of his ire.

She sounds like it’s before. 

And like before, she presses a bottle into his hand and curls up on the couch. 

She used to push her toes under his thighs to keep them warm, but now she is carefully not touching him, though she leans forward a little. “C’mon. Tell me. What are the incredible, terrible Blakes battling about?”

Her eyes are electric. She smells like jasmine. She is achingly, beautifully close to him for the first time in what feels like hundreds of years, lifetimes between before and now, and so he says, just like it’s before,

“Octavia wants to move to MICHIGAN!” He thunders through the explanation, through the application, the interview, the job offer, the apartment she rented sight unseen and her bombshell over dinner. 

_“I need this, Bell. Please understand. You can visit anytime, plane tickets are cheap, and--” she pulls on the ends of her hair like she’s nine. “God, say something.”_

So he said too much.

“What’s even in Michigan?” he gripes.

“Lakes?” Clarke supplies helpfully. 

When Bellamy doesn’t react to her joke, she worries her bottom lip. 

“Did you really come here to hear what I think?”

He nods. Among other reasons.

Clarke shifts and snakes her arm along the back of the couch to touch his shoulder. She opens her mouth but he hears nothing, not a word, above the sound of blood rushing in his ears, because he sees it. He knew it would be there, of course, but he sees it for the first time, and it hurts. 

There is a line, a long, thin, nearly surgical line, extending from the middle of her wrist up towards her inner elbow. It’s pink and delicate but it screams a memory at Bellamy that has him shutting down in a speedrun. 

_Three months from the breakup, Murphy and Miller have invaded Bellamy’s kitchen with beer and a pizza. They both look exhausted; Murphy seems twice as squirrelly as usual. No one’s spoken to Bellamy in nine weeks. Raven never answers her phone, Monty doesn’t know how to be mean but dodges Bellamy’s calls. “Sorry, so busy with school!” his texts say. But now these two have shown up unexpectedly, for “guys’ night.”_

_The beer has become warm and Murphy is shredding the label on his bottle while Miller tries to tell a lighthearted anecdote about Jackson. Bellamy is tired in his bones, wishes they would leave even though he’s missed them terribly. Murphy blurts out suddenly,_

_“Bellamy, there’s something you should know.”_

_“Shut the fuck up, Murphy,” Miller snarls with uncharacteristic heat. “We agreed--”_

_“No, you agreed! I didn’t agree to anything!” Murphy is resolute. “They don’t want you to know, they said not to tell you, but Bellamy, Clarke hurt herself.”_

_Gears move very slowly. Miller kicks out of his chair, throws open the window, sucks in fresh cool air._

_“What do you mean, hurt herself?”_

_“She’s okay now,” Miller interrupts. “That’s important.”_

_“I came home with Raven, and Clarke was locked in the bathroom. She was…” Murphy makes a vague motion, a clawing at his heart. “Crying like…” he takes a deep breath. “We got the door open, and there was so much blood.”_

_A chill has settled over Bellamy. He is frozen._

_“One wrist,” Murphy says raggedly, “not the other.” He drags his shirtsleeve over his nose._

_“Where is she?” Bellamy’s voice is so quiet, they almost can’t hear him, “Where, where, when…?”_

_Miller is furious but not heartless. “They took her to Mount Weather. She was there for two weeks. Now she’s back at her place. She’s doing better. Taking meds and stuff. We’ve all been posted up there in shifts.” His gaze hardens. “Bellamy, you shouldn’t go see her. She’s fucking fragile.”_

_“No.” Murphy shakes his head, Bellamy realizes this is an argument they’ve been having for days. “She misses him, she says--”_

_Miller’s voice raises, “Raven and I think--”_

_“I know what you think!” Murphy reaches across the table, fingers encircling Bellamy’s wrist, “they’re wrong, Bellamy. If you love her, you should go to her. You have no idea how much she needs you right now.”_

_Miller is still at the window, he is nearly gasping, sounds almost like he’s suffocating. When he speaks his tone is pained._

_“You don’t know...how it’s been. She’s a fucking wreck, Bellamy. If you were to see her, and you two fought? I don’t know if she could take it. She’s doing better but a setback like that? Might not be survivable.”_

_“You think this is my fault?” Bellamy whispers. “I thought you were my friend, not hers.”_

_“I’m not taking a side--but I am trying to protect someone who can’t protect herself right now. But you know what? As your friend, I’m so pissed at you. You left that girl. You left her, knowing she was on the fucking brink, and now that you’re feeling guilty about the logical consequences you want to just pop back into her life because--what? You love her? If you love her, leave her the hell alone.”_

_Murphy scrapes back his chair. Bellamy lays his cheek on the cool table, mind racing. A realization gives a shove at his gut._

_“My sister knew about this.”_

_It is a flat statement. Not a question._

_“She’s moved in with Clarke and Raven. Yeah, she knows. But she agrees with us--” Miller’s voice is strident. “She agrees that distance between you and Clarke is for the best.”_

_“Leave, please,” Bellamy says in a low voice._

_“Bellamy, I don’t blame you,” Murphy makes his last stand. “I don’t blame you, and neither does Clarke. You should at least call her. Just talk to her.”_

_“LEAVE!” Bellamy roars, the words tearing from his throat. “Just get out! Both of you!” He smacks the chair closest to him, sending it flying against a wall. Murphy jumps to his feet._

_“You’re being a fucking coward.” Murphy says distinctly._

_“I told you--” Miller begins, ducking sharply as Bellamy throws a beer bottle in his direction. It shatters, sending glass shards and amber liquid everywhere. Miller raises his hands, “we’re leaving, we’re leaving.”_

_They make their way out of the house, arguing loudly. Bellamy doesn’t even look up, standing over the sink with hot tears falling down his face, as they slam the door._

_On the lawn, Murphy yells, “yeah, and fuck you too, Miller! They’re both miserable! How is this helping?!”_

_Bellamy doesn’t hear Miller’s response, busy sending Octavia a volley of texts._

_She calls within minutes, says she’s on the balcony at Clarke and Raven’s place. He can imagine her pacing the short length as she talks quickly._

_He begs her to give a message to Clarke, but she demurs._

_“I would do anything for you, Big Brother, but you need to stay away from Clarke. Let her get better without you. Maybe someday…? But leave her alone for now.”_

_“Why didn’t you tell me? Miller thinks this is my fault. Is it?” Bellamy feels like he’s been turned inside out._

_“Bell…” she sighs. “This isn’t your fault, and I don’t blame you.”_

_“You and Murphy should start a fan club,” he mumbles._

_“I knew you would be upset, and you might want to rush in and try to fix things, all heroically. This isn’t that kind of situation. It just needs time and distance.” She sighs again. “Also, Bell...you don’t understand how awful it was. I think Murphy and Raven probably need therapy. At the hospital he threw up over and over. They got the door open and there was just…”_

_“...so much blood,” Bellamy finishes. “He told me.”_

_“They gave us her clothes at the hospital and they were just soaked. If Raven and Murphy hadn’t had that fight and come home…” He can hear her swallow back tears. “Bell, she’s still in love with you. If you were to come back and find this too much to handle and leave again, or any similar situation, you could set her back permanently.”_

_“You don’t trust me.”_

_“You left the first time, didn’t you?”_

Bellamy is holding Clarke’s wrist, his hands shaking. He traces the line gently, barely touching her skin. She doesn’t snatch her hand back but gently extricates it. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I would have worn long sleeves if I’d known you were coming.”

“You don’t have to hide yourself from me.” Bellamy clears his throat. “Anyway, Murphy told me. I knew.”

“It freaks people out. Especially when I run across people I haven’t seen in awhile.” 

_What are you doing here, now?_

Clarke catches the misery in his face. 

“That wasn’t a judgment, Bellamy,” she says softly, putting a hand on his knee.

_You don’t have to judge me. I judge myself._

“How are you feeling?” Bellamy asks. “You look great.”

_Your spark is back._

_You aren’t a ghost anymore._

_You’re the Clarke I fell in love with._

“I’m doing okay.” She flashes a sunny smile. “Actually, I’m doing really well. Therapy, meds, supportive friends--they’re keeping me afloat. “

She is no longer the Clarke their group of friends was trying to understand--who’d gone from the life of the party to a gray spectre. She was the topic of so many frustrated and tearful conversations. At the peak of it, he’d said his final words: _I can’t do this anymore, Clarke. I love you, but I’m exhausted. You’re drowning, and you’re pulling me and all of our friends under with you._

As if she’s reading his mind, she whispers, “I’m not drowning anymore.” She pushes dark curls out of Bellamy’s eyes. Her voice gets stronger: “I’m okay, if that’s why you came.” 

_I came because I missed you._

_I came because I’ve been a coward._

_I came because I need you._

“No. I mean, it’s so good to see how great you look, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Why did you come? Is this really about Octavia?” Clarke scoots away from him, her back against the arm of the couch. He can breathe again, now that they’re not touching.

“Do you ever miss us?” His tone is abrupt, the question one he might not want answered. “Like...me and you, us?”

“Oh, Bellamy, don’t be dense.” Her voice is absolutely scorching. “Of course I miss us. All the time.” Her smile wavers. “Our family feels...hollow? Without you.”

He nods, getting up to pace the room. Clarke watches him like a hawk. He can tell she’s working herself up to say something. 

“Listen, about Octavia: I know you’re afraid to let her go, but I think she needs this. A change of pace, a fresh start? After Lincoln…”

Lincoln, the catalyst for Octavia’s decision. 

_Six months prior: Raven is calling Bellamy’s phone. It has been a year and a half since he last heard from her, a year and three months since Murphy and Miller crashed his house to tell him about Clarke._

_His first thought is that Clarke is dead. She’s tried again, and succeeded, because there is no other way Raven would be calling him nearly a year and a half after their friendship went up in smoke._

_When Raven says, “there’s been an accident. Octavia’s fine, but Lincoln…” the relief that curls through his body makes him sick with guilt. Raven makes a small sound, as if she is trying not to sob, and it snatches him back to reality._

_“Raven? Are you okay? Where’s my sister...is Lincoln…?”_

_“The other car smashed into the driver’s side. He was gone before the paramedics got there.” Another small, shuddering sound. “Bellamy, we’re here, Octavia, Clarke, Harper, and I--we’re at Harper’s place. You don’t need to rush over. But, um, Clarke’s going to get Octavia’s clothes and things in an hour. So I’ll text you, and you should come then.”_

_Bellamy pulls a hand down his face._

_“Is that what Clarke said?”_

_Raven sniffles into the phone, but her voice has a new strength to it._

_“No. But that’s what Harper and I agreed on. The last thing Octavia needs to be worrying about is you and Clarke fighting.”_

_“It’s been a year and a half, Raven, I think we’re beyond fighting.”_

_“You’ll see Clarke at the funeral, but for today, can you just...do as I say?”_

_So he sits in his car a half block from Harper’s place, and when he gets the text he lopes through the front door and catches Octavia in his arms, and she whimpers._

_“Oh, God, Bell, tell me this is a nightmare.” He steers her to the couch so they can sit together. Raven and Harper disappear into the kitchen tactfully as he murmurs soothing words into her ear, rubbing her back, just like he did when she was a little girl._

_“I’m here,” he tells her, over and over, “I’m here.”_

_Bellamy can hear Harper and Raven speaking in hushed tones in the other room, and the sound of the kitchen door banging as Monty joins them. Monty sneaks down the hall and returns with a duffle bag--_

_“Bellamy, speak to you in the kitchen?”_

_Octavia’s cried herself out, she’s nearly asleep with her face buried in Bellamy’s shoulder. He carefully arranges her with a blanket, and she mumbles but is quite still._

_Raven’s face is blotchy but she has her laptop open and is writing down phone numbers while Monty mutters suggestions at her shoulder--Bellamy glances at the screen and she’s got several tabs open to pages that belong to funeral homes. Harper is making some sort of list with names upon names--some are their friends, some are people he only knew through Lincoln. Luna, Indra. They’ll want to hear immediately._

_“Clarke left us homework,” Raven tries to sound joking, but there is a hitch in her voice that ruins the gallows humor._

_Of course she did. Clarke has had more than her fair share of loss and funerals, she would know what to do._

_“Octavia, Clarke and I are going to be staying with Harper for the next few days…just FYI.” Raven has a set to her jaw that lets him know she’s ready for a fight._

_“I was planning on taking her back to my place,” Bellamy rubs at the back of his neck._

_“I think she needs us. You know, like The Sisterhood.” Harper gives him a small, sad smile. “Monty is going to Jasper’s--it’ll just be us girls.”_

_Bellamy looks at Raven, who is still writing down funeral home numbers. He knows that he and Octavia haven’t been as close as they once were, but could she really need them more than she needs her older brother?_

_“If you think…” he trails off. “If you could just call me, I can help with anything.” He realizes that against his will, he might start crying, right goddamn now. “Don’t let her think I’m staying away because I don’t love her.”_

_Harper’s shoulders slump. “She would never think that. This is just a tricky situation. Especially considering how close we all became to Lincoln over the past year. He and Clarke in particular. Octavia will want to talk to people who...really understand her grief. As much as you love her, you and Lincoln never got along…” She covers her mouth with her hand. “Shit, I didn’t really mean to say that.”_

_Bellamy nods sharply at her, once, twice, and pushes himself towards the front door. He brushes his fingers over Octavia’s hair._

_“You sure you’re okay here, O? You can come back to my place..?”_

_“It’s okay. I’ll stay here. You can’t protect me from this, Bell, I just need to be with friends.”_

_He sits in his Rover for fifteen minutes, just staring. If only a year ago he’d have gone to Clarke when he had a chance, he could be in that warm house with his friends, grieving, holding his sister._

_Clarke’s blue Jetta comes flying around the corner. It’s somehow comforting that she still drives like a bat out of hell. He hopes she won’t see him sitting in the road, but it’s too late, she jumps out of the car and walks towards him purposefully._

_Murphy is right, Bellamy is a coward, and he squeals in reverse to tear away from her. As he spins wildly into a U-turn, he can see her, standing in the middle of the street as she pushes the heel of her hand across her cheek and turns toward the house._

_The funeral is a somber affair, and Bellamy has braced himself: Clarke will be here. He hadn’t gotten a good look at her at Harper’s, so he’s shocked when Clarke and Octavia emerge into the church pews. Clarke’s face has filled in, there’s no trace of the Gray Lady she’d become. Her hair is braided into a wreath around her head, and her skin is porcelain with rosy cheeks. She wears a simple black shift dress with long sleeves, and there’s a furious energy around her as she directs people to their seats. Octavia scoots in near Raven--he recognizes Raven’s beat-up motorcycle jacket and ponytail. He makes his way towards them, staring at the ground to avoid getting caught up in the conversations going on around him. He nearly bumps into Clarke, and she says, “Whoa, steady,” before she’s looked up at him._

_They raise their heads at the same time, their eyes catching, they’re much too close._

_Her breath is soft and hot and smells like cinnamon._

_She finds a half-smile for him. “Family’s sitting here,” she gestures at the pew. For the first words she’s spoken to him in a year and a half, they are ridiculously mundane._

_Fifteen minutes later finds Bellamy on one side of Octavia, and Clarke on the other. They sit, holding her hands, until it’s over._

_They retire to Harper’s place afterward. It seems that everyone Lincoln ever knew is crammed into that small space. They drink a lot. People begin to break off in twos and threes as the night winds on and finally, close to midnight, Bellamy desperately needs fresh air and a cigarette. Octavia’s curled up on the couch again. He wonders if that is her place in this house, and when she’ll be able to find her way home._

_Without Lincoln, it probably won’t ever feel like home again._

_Bellamy quietly unlatches the front door, pulling out his lighter. He realizes almost immediately that he is not the only one who’d had the inclination to seek solace in the chill air, away from everyone. A small, forlorn figure is taking up space in the very spot he’d intended to fill._

_It’s Clarke, leaning on the porch rail. He realizes almost immediately that she is crying--no--sobbing her heart out. Without pausing, Bellamy comes up behind her and places a hand on her shoulder. He thinks she might push him away, or lash out, but instead she whirls and buries her face in his chest, crying as if her heart might break. He brushes at her braid, smoothing down stray strands, murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay, Princess.”_

_Clarke curls up her fingers in his shirt, and he feels her shake her head. He rests his hand on the back of her neck, rubbing his thumb in a circle._

_“Can I help?” he asks, but she doesn’t answer._

_Bellamy doesn’t know how long this goes on. His shirt is soaked with tears when she finally pulls away to wipe her face and sniffle into a tissue._

_“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Just...sorry.” There is mascara running down her face, which she must know, because she is scrubbing at her cheeks. Then she clears her throat, gathers her wits. “You should go home. I gave Octavia a Xanax,” a rueful smile, “she won’t wake up til tomorrow.”_

_Bellamy’s head is spinning. Her perfume is breaking his heart. It isn’t fair how much he loves her after all of this time. But, oh god, he does love her still._

_She’s already walking away from him, already mostly gone, but as she touches the doorknob he manages to croak out her name._

_“Wait, Clarke…”_

_She looks back at him over her shoulder: “Not tonight, Bellamy.”_

_So he takes a breath, climbs into the Rover, and tells himself that “not tonight,” translates to, “another time.”_

He sits abruptly. 

“Bellamy? You okay?” She touches his arm again, grounding him to the earth. 

_I haven’t been okay in years…_

“Tell me what you think, about Octavia. Pretend like I’m not me. What would you say to a stranger?”

“I could never treat you like a stranger.” She squirms in her seat, starts again with her argument. “As I was saying, I think she needs a fresh start. She can’t...move on? Or even try to, when this entire city is nothing but memories of him. Can you imagine? Trying to start over if it had been someone you loved--Echo?”

His shoulders shoot up around his ears. He didn’t realize Clarke even knew about Echo, and the sound of her name makes him instantly furious. 

“I don’t want to talk about her. She was different. Not the same situation as Octavia and Lincoln, at all.”

Clarke’s eyes sweep over him. 

“You loved her, and you lost her. How is it not the same?”

Bellamy closes his eyes. 

“I didn’t love her,” he admits, for the first time. “She was only the person who came next, after you.” He sighs. “How could I feel anything for her, really, when I was still hung up on you?”

“Was?” she asks, and it’s as if she’s stopped breathing. 

“No.” Bellamy rakes a hand through his hair. “Not was.” And he stands again, looks in the fridge for another beer. He wants to be drunk if this conversation is to continue. 

She switches quickly though, back to Octavia. 

“I know you think you can protect her if she stays here--”

“It isn’t only that--” Bellamy begins hotly. 

She waves her hand again, such a familiar gesture that it hurts his chest. 

“And you want her to stay because she’s your only family--”

“That isn’t it, Clarke!”

“Are you sure? If it’s not either of those things, then what is it?”

Bellamy stutters over his answer.

“She’s my responsibility,” he says finally. “I can’t take care of her if she’s three states away.” 

Clarke purses her lips. 

“Don’t give me that ‘my sister, my responsibility’ bullshit. You’re not the one who’s been caring for her the past six months--she’s been basically living here, and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you since the night of the funeral.”

_What are you doing here, now?_

_If you love her, go to her._

_If you love her, leave her the hell alone._

“We have coffee every Saturday,” his voice sounds whiny to his own ears, “we talk about everything.”

Now Clarke has a slight upward tilt to her mouth again, but it’s not a smile, something angrier. 

“And she tells you what’s going on with the friends you were all too happy to ditch when you left me?”

“For fuck’s sake, Clarke, you know that’s not what happened at all.”

“Oh, isn’t it? You’re not trying to bend Octavia to your will, just like you tried to bend me? You were willing to cut ties with everyone we knew just to punish me.” 

“I just want my sister within reach!” 

“God, Bellamy, it isn’t like you to be so fucking selfish!”

She could have slapped him and it would have hurt less. The words hit somewhere deep inside, tugs at a pain he often pretends doesn’t exist, and he has to clutch at the kitchen table to stay upright. 

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m not, I’m not.”

_You left that girl. You left her, knowing she was on the brink._

Why are you here, _now_?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years after a painful breakup, Clarke and Bellamy clash over Octavia's future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter continues to deal with mental health and a suicide attempt, it also talks about the notes Clarke wrote after she made her decision, and Bellamy's feelings about her attempt. 
> 
> At this point in the story I'd like to make two things clear, which is why I broke the story into two chunks: I do not agree with Clarke's decision nor her reasoning for writing the notes. I also do not agree with Bellamy. People who commit suicide are in a deep amount of pain, and their friends and family must extend them an extraordinary amount of sympathy/empathy, and not every person is able to give that. I have portrayed them as having a discussion a lot of people have when they survive suicide attempts. Bellamy represents feelings friends and family have, Clarke represents feelings a suicidal person has. Neither of them are necessarily right, but feelings can be valid even when they're incorrect.
> 
> At the end of the day, I know they're only characters and this is only a story, but I do take the discussion of mental health seriously, and this story represents some very personal issues for me. If you continue to read, I hope that you understand the choices I've made in representing Clarke and Bellamy the way I did.

“You have a lot of nerve, calling someone else selfish,” nausea climbs up his throat, and he knows he’s being unfair, but says it anyway. “How much more selfish can you get than killing yourself? You weren’t even going to say goodbye, you just did it! Like there was nothing in the world you wanted to say to the people who had been struggling with you for years, trying to keep you propped up and safe.”

_Like me_ , a voice in his head whispers furiously. _You weren’t going to say goodbye to me._

Clarke jumps to her feet, stalks angrily away from him. He wonders if she’ll lock herself in her room and declare the conversation over. If he will have to leave, when he hasn’t said his piece. He sinks back into the couch, head in his hands. 

She returns with a small box and snatches the lid off, dumping the contents in his lap. There are dozens of folded notes inside, some are blurred with spots...teardrops, he realizes. And the names of her friends are scribbled on the front of every note. Harper, Raven, Jasper, Octavia…

_Bellamy._

“You can read them,” her voice is slightly strangled, and she speaks haltingly, “I kept all the notes--well, Raven kept them for me. A reminder. You know? That I was that low, and I was saved, and all the people who loved me, who would’ve been crushed if Raven and Murphy hadn’t…” she trails off. “Who would’ve been crushed if I’d gone through with it...I was going to say goodbye, but I wanted to do it on my own terms. It wasn’t selfish, though. I cared about the people I was leaving behind, I just honestly couldn’t think straight. I take responsibility for my actions, Bellamy, but if you’ve never been in that place you just can’t understand.”

He unfolds the crinkly piece of paper. Her handwriting is perfect, as always, small and neat. Clarke slams the door that leads to the balcony, and he watches her lean over the railing towards the sun before he absorbs her words. 

_Bellamy,_

_I know why you left, and I want to tell you that I understand. You’ve been burning yourself up to keep me warm, and you don’t deserve that. It’s unfair. I’m afraid that if I’m in your life, you will always be inclined to be the campfire. I don’t want that for you. Please believe me when I say that none of this is your fault, and this final decision has nothing to do with you leaving. I know you’ll blame yourself, but I can still reassure you that you were a good friend and a stellar boyfriend. More than I deserved.  
Your kind and loving nature has always felt like a port in a storm. Please take care of our friends. You’re so good at that. I know they’re mad at you right now but they’ll forgive you. They’re good like that.  
I have always loved you, and you walking away didn’t change that. I’ll die loving you, and that’s all I can ask the universe for.  
I’m so sorry.  
Yours,  
Clarke_

A deep breath, and he reaches for the next. 

_Harper,  
You’ve tried so hard, and I don’t deserve that. I deserve it even less now, but I know I can rely on you to be the sunshine our friends will need... _

_Jasper,  
I need you to take care of Monty and Harper for me, but don’t forget that you are so very loved, too... _

_Octavia,  
I’m so glad I got to be your sister…_

_Raven,  
You are the most relentlessly intelligent person I know, but don’t let that be a cover for your giant heart..._

_Murphy,  
I see right through your bullshit. Don’t be afraid to let others see it, too. I know you’ll think I abandoned you, but I just can’t keep going on like this..._

_Monty,  
You’re going to be famous for your inventions someday, but when I think of you, your sweet smile is the first thing that comes to mind…_

_Maya,  
When you helped with the dishes the night of the 4th of July barbeque, I knew we’d be friends for real. You’re so good at seeing what others need..._

_Miller,  
I have always counted on you backing me up. Please do the same for Bellamy. I know you’re angry with him, but you’ll need each other. _

Endless epistles scatter the couch as he reads them, one after another. 

Every letter containing the same sentiments: 

_You’re special. I love you. Please forgive me._

So very typical of Clarke.

An apology for something no apology could fix.

He reads Murphy’s letter again.

_You hide behind sarcasm and rolled eyes. Are you afraid Raven will realize you love her? Don’t you know she loves you too?_

Bellamy throws the glass door open:

“Did this work?” he asks, showing her Murphy’s letter. “You know it’s a little fucked up, matchmaking on your deathbed.”

Clarke’s face is covered in tears, he flashes back to that night on the porch. 

_Not tonight, Bellamy._

“I was worried they wouldn’t be able to swallow their pride and tell each other how much they care.” 

Bellamy snorts. 

“And you thought, what, that if you made their confessions part of your suicide note, then they’d get right on it?” He lets out a long, angry sigh. “Christ, Clarke, like anyone would be thinking about their romantic future after that?”

“I told you--I wasn’t exactly thinking straight,” she says softly. “In fact, I wasn’t thinking at all, really. It was like...it felt like I was writing in people’s yearbooks. Senior year? When you really want to let people know how much they mean to you, because you might not ever see them again.” 

“The way you’re minimizing this makes me sick.” Bellamy’s hands are shaking.

“Sometimes you have to minimize things to get past them.”

“Did they teach you that in therapy?” He waves the letter at her again. “How about Murphy and Raven, who opened the door to you covered in blood? Do you think they’re able to minimize this shit?”

It’s terrifying to think of what might have happened that night; terrifying to think of how he might have reacted if he’d been the one who threw the door open. 

Clarke lets out a frustrated noise, almost a scream. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Bellamy! I wasn’t me! I’d spent over a year in the deepest depression you can imagine. Nothing changed how I felt about myself, how much it seemed that I’d reached a dead end and I’d never get better, or I’d never feel differently. Even loving you wasn’t enough--even you loving me wasn’t enough. There was nothing. Do you understand that? Nothing could change how I felt or didn’t feel.” 

Her eyes are bright as sapphires, full of tears.

“I was desperate, lonely, sad…and I’d convinced myself I would only ever be those things.”

“You were wrong, though,” Bellamy points out, his voice unsteady. “You’re none of those things now.”

“It’s been nearly three years and a lot of hard work. And...I still have setbacks.”

She scrubs her cheek, it reminds him of the last time he saw her, and Bellamy breathes in loudly. 

“Is that what happened the night of Lincoln’s funeral?”

“That was a hard day.” Clarke is trying hard not to burst into tears again, he can tell. “Lincoln was a good friend. And seeing Octavia shattered that way--It brought back a lot of memories. My parents, Wells, your mom. But I was trying so hard to hold it together for Octavia. When I saw she was asleep on the couch I thought I’d make my escape and have a little cry. But then it turned into...what you saw. When you came out onto the porch...it felt like a safe place to let my guard down.”

Clarke drops her eyes. 

“I hope it was okay. I never wanted to be a burden to you again.”

“You weren’t,” he says shortly. “I was worried, but it wasn’t like before.” 

He leans forward, touches her arm, concentrates on making his tone more gentle.

“Can we sit?”

Clarke nods, allows him to lead her to the couch. Somehow their hands have become entangled, and hers is warm in his. Secure, and he squeezes it. 

“The night of the funeral, you said, ‘Not tonight, Bellamy.’ “

She makes an acknowledging noise in her throat.

“What did you think I was going to say?” He asks. “What did you want to put off?”

“I thought you might say you still love me,” her lip trembles, “and I couldn’t handle that conversation then.”

Bellamy reaches over, cups her cheek in his hand. 

“Could you handle it right now?”

Clarke puts her hand over his. 

“You broke my heart, Bellamy. It’s not your fault, things were awful, we were toxic...but you still broke my heart.”

He leans forward, his lips brushing her forehead.

“We’re even, then, because you broke mine too.”

She moves closer to him on the couch, their thighs touching, and pulls at the shoulders of his tee shirt, making a fist with them in her hands. Her thumbs trace the side of his neck. She is almost in his lap, and he wraps his arms around her waist. 

“I’m so sorry, Bellamy. I wish things could have been different.”

“You don’t have to be sorry.” He brushes her neck with his lips, now. “But if you need forgiveness,” he whispers into her hair, “I’ll give that to you. You’re forgiven.”

They are as close as can be, intertwined, and again, it feels like before. Clarke lays a kiss on his shoulder, and he feels her wet lashes brush his skin. Her hair is tickling his throat. She smells like home. 

And then she lets go, pulls back, eyes still lowered. His shirt is a crumpled mess where she was holding on, and he doesn’t cover fast enough--she can see his tattoo. A tiny, stylized outline of a crown on his collarbone. 

_It’s okay, Princess._

Clarke touches it lightly, her face unreadable. 

“Why did you run away from me when I saw you at Harper’s?”

“I can’t…”

“Why did you wait six months to come here? Why are you using Octavia as an excuse? You had to know that I would take her side.”

What are you doing here, _now?_

“Why did you ignore Murphy when he told you…” she swallows, “when he told you I wanted to see you, or hear from you?” 

“Raven, Miller, Octavia…” Bellamy gives a tiny shrug, “they all told me that the better thing was to stay away. Let you figure out a way forward without me.”

Clarke gives a small hum.

“What about you?” She questions. “Did you figure out a way forward without me?”

He ducks his head.

_Our family feels hollow without you._

“Clarke, I…”

Her head is tilted, she is staring straight at him, and it’s too much. He stands quickly, pushing her away. She stares up at him, her eyes fixed on his face. 

“Tell me the truth.” Her voice is quiet but steely. “Why are you here, now? No excuses or fake-me-outs. It’s been six months since your attempted love confession. You could have found me the next day, or any number of days after. For weeks I expected you.” She snatches his beer bottle off the coffee table. “I bought your favorite beer. When you didn’t come I drank it all, and then I bought more. So where have you been, Bellamy? What’s your excuse?”

Octavia’s voice, tough as nails:

_“I’m so glad I told you to stay away from Clarke. She’s better now, and she didn’t need you at all. I don’t need you at all, either. I’m going to Michigan, and I’m starting over, and if you’re going to pull what you did with her--being so goddamn selfish, punishing anyone who tries to help--then I guess we’ll just never see each other again. Maybe I’ll recover just like she did, without relying on you.”_

And Clarke:

_“God, Bellamy, it isn’t like you to be so selfish!” and then, brutally, “You were willing to cut ties with everyone we knew just to punish me!”_

_I’m not. I’m not I’m not I’m not._

The two most important women in his entire life, damning him as selfish, punishing. 

He has to escape. 

Still in love with Clarke or no, he can’t be here, and he can’t fucking breathe. 

Bellamy heads for the door, but Clarke bounds over the sofa and stands in front of him, blocking his way. 

“Move,” he whispers, grabbing her arms. “Please, Clarke, move. I need...I can’t…”

“No.” 

“Clarke, please.” He gulps for air, starts to feel dizzy. 

“No. No. You don’t get to choose this. You ran from me then, and I know why and I’m not angry, but we’re not going to do this again.” Even though he’s holding her arms, she reaches up, brushes his curls out of his face one more time. “Tell me how you feel. Tell me why you stayed away. Tell me why you’re here now and for God’s sake, tell me why you want to leave.” Her lower lip trembles once more. “Please don’t break my heart again, Bellamy. Just tell me the truth.”

His heart clenches painfully, and he falls to his knees, bringing Clarke down with him. She inches closer, shaking off his grip, and puts her arms around his neck. 

“I still love you,” she promises, her lips close to his ear. “I don’t want to waste a second chance if you came here to say you still love me, too.”

_I’ll die loving you, and that’s really all I can ask the universe for._

Bellamy breaks. 

Clutching his arms around her waist, he buries his face in the crook of her neck and sobs. She moves closer, whispering, 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

In a voice thick with tears, he says, 

“I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I’ve been angry and terrified--when I left everyone was so mad at me and I thought...this can’t get any worse...but then Murphy…” he breaks off, she tightens her hold. “He said if I loved you...but Miller and Octavia said that I could break you. And I thought...knowing you were alive and doing well was better than coming back and going through all of that again. So I just...missed you. I just missed you, and I was angry that you were doing better without me, and I was angry that it felt like everyone we knew, even my own sister, was on your side, and I was scared that one day you wouldn’t be doing better and you would just fade away like before.” 

_Before._

“So I stayed away. And I let Octavia’s stories be enough. Tried to pretend like the clues she dropped and the conversations she told me about were all I needed. And I thought that maybe she was exaggerating your state of health, or that maybe you weren’t even doing that well but it seemed a lot better because of how low you were. I don’t...does that make sense?”

Clarke lets out a bitter laugh.

“Anything would probably seem good compared to The Gray Lady.” 

“When I saw you at Lincoln’s funeral it was the most painful happiness that’s ever existed. You looked like you again--you were busy but there was such an ease about you.”

She pulls back to look in his face.

“I felt exactly the opposite about you. You were thin and drawn; you looked like you were just bracing for someone to hit you. And you used to say I was sleepwalking...you were the one with your head down, fumbling through the crowd.” Clarke draws a deep breath. “I tried to convince Murphy to talk to you, find out what was wrong, but he’s still mad.” She spreads her hands a little, “he’s not exactly the forgiving sort.” 

“Feels like a long time to hold a grudge,” Bellamy mumbles. “Especially against your best friend.” 

“You have to realize that when he came to you, it was only a month out from…” she swallows. “From me trying…” she brushes a tear away, irritated, like her eyes are betraying her by crying again. “He doesn’t want me to feel guilty, but he told Raven it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. I think he needed you, and you didn’t come back. For either of us.”

“And you didn’t? Need me?”

“Of course I did.” Clarke puts her hand on his thigh. “I still do. I had faith in you, though. I didn’t put a time limit on it. At least, not until that night. I told you ‘not tonight’ but I definitely didn’t intend on you waiting six more months. I thought...it would be soon. I thought you missed me the way I missed you.” 

He gives a small groan, buries his face in her neck again. 

“I did. I do. I’m an idiot.”

“I know Octavia said something to you during your fight that made you decide to come here. You might as well tell me what it was, otherwise I’ll just hear it from her later.”

“She said what you said: I’m selfish and I punish people when they don’t...how did you put it...bend to my will?”

Clarke raises an eyebrow. 

“You do have an irritating habit of thinking you know what’s best for Octavia without even considering that she just might know what’s best for herself.” 

“So you agree with her?”

“Agree with her? I got her the interview, Bellamy. The owner of the ranch was an old friend of my mom’s. She said she needed to get out of town, start something new.” 

He turns his face, nodding in a way that screams bitterness, he’s angry, and he’d tell her so if he didn’t know he was in the wrong. 

“Don’t be angry with me,” she says, running her fingers lightly along his jaw. “She was going to leave without even telling you and I convinced her that was a bad idea, you might just fly there and drag her home kicking and screaming.”

“When my mom died, and I said I didn’t know how to take care of Octavia, you said we’d do it together.”

“This _is_ how we take care of Octavia. And we can still do it together.”

_Octavia broke her arm three days before Christmas when she was nine years old, and it was all Bellamy’s fault._

_They’re at The Griffins’ on an unseasonably warm day because Clarke’s gotten an early Christmas gift she wanted to show them, and Octavia never goes anywhere without Bellamy, and the Griffins’ housekeeper Ingrid never minds Bellamy and Octavia coming to play._

_Play no longer being precisely the right word--Clarke is twelve now, and she’s pretty and boys look at her and sometimes she lets Finn Collins give her gifts. He folded a perfect paper crane last week and left it on her desk during algebra. And Bellamy is fifteen, and noticing Clarke’s prettiness, and starting to get a little pissed off about it. She’s too young, only in seventh grade, when Bellamy’s in high school and has girls like Gina hanging off his arm._

_Maybe hanging is an exaggeration, but she does send him texts with lots of emojis, and he likes that._

_And Clarke’s not patient but she is kind, and she loves Octavia, so when Octavia wants to go do cartwheels on the back lawn on this rare sunny December day, Clarke says yes and promises to teach her a back handspring. Bellamy’s irritated, sick to death of “the little girls” (as Ingrid still calls them, as if they’re babies) and he shoos them out the door and sprawls in a patch of sunshine to cultivate the perfect response to Gina’s latest text. When he next looks up he sees Octavia shinnying up a perfect oak tree, reaching for a branch, and he bursts through the back door and yells,_

_“Octavia, get the hell down from there!”_

_And she looks back at him, loses her balance, and falls._

_It’s obvious nearly immediately that her arm is broken, and Octavia bursts into sobs. Clarke kneels next to her, Ingrid comes bustling into the yard, and they rush Octavia down to Abby’s small but busy practice. Abby is consoling and lets Clarke hold Octavia’s hand while she sets the arm, but when Aurora comes through the door Clarke is relegated to the waiting room, where she perches next to Bellamy. He has his head in his hands, he’s already heard it from his mother--”Why weren’t you keeping an eye on your sister?!”--and he doesn’t want to hear it from Clarke too so he curls in on himself even more, isn’t listening when she says his name twice._

_So she touches his shoulder and says it again and he goes to hide down the hall, sinking to the floor, putting his forehead on his knees and Clarke slides down the wall too and she says, very gently,_

_“Bellamy, stop running away from me.”_

_“I already got in trouble, I don’t need a guilt trip from you,” he sulks, but it lacks heat, and his nose is running. He didn’t even realize he was crying._

_Clarke sneaks a tissue under the curve of his arm and says, in a tone that strikes the perfect balance between reasonable and cajoling,_

_“That wasn’t your fault.”_

_“My mom thinks it was,” he nearly yells, and then in a calmer, miserable voice, “it feels like it was.”_

_Clarke puts her skinny arm around him, leans her head against his._

_“You didn’t hear me, but I was yelling at her, too. And Ingrid was supposed to be watching her. It’s on all of us.”’_

_Down the hall, Aurora comes out of the exam room with a slam, but Abby calls out to her:_

_“Rory—wait!” Only Abby and Jake call her Rory, much in the same way only Octavia calls Bellamy Bell, and only Bellamy calls Octavia O. Nicknames are personal, that’s why only Bellamy is allowed to call Clarke Princess. (Even though Finn has tried a few times.) Bellamy hears his mother take a deep breath, and she says:_

_“Abby, please don’t apologize again, this wasn’t Ingrid’s fault, or Clarke’s.”_

_“If it wasn’t theirs, it wasn’t Bellamy’s either. Don’t be so angry with him, Rory. He’s only a child himself.”_

_Clarke and Bellamy are stock-still. Neither of them have ever overheard this kind of conversation between their mothers._

_“He was supposed to be watching her—she’s his responsibility!”_

_Bellamy brushes away hot, embarrassing tears. Clarke pulls him closer. She suddenly doesn’t seem so young._

_Abby’s next words are unforgettable. They are destined to become Clarke’s mantra when it comes to her friend._

_“You and I both know that Octavia can’t be controlled. She was born a wild thing, destined for broken bones and broken hearts. All you—and Bellamy—will ever be able to do is pick up the pieces.”_

_A quiet moment, then a soft sniffle from Aurora._

_“Her father is the same.”_

_Clarke’s eyes go huge as saucers: Octavia’s father isn’t in the picture. No one knows anything about him--most definitely not either Blake sibling._

_Abby says,_

_“And that’s why you loved him, Rory.” There’s a beat, and Bellamy is nearly holding his breath. Abby’s voice is very quiet when she asks, “Have you heard from him recently?”_

_“I sent him a Christmas card,” (matching Christmas sweaters, Octavia’s crooked teeth, Bellamy’s braces on full display and Octavia’s hair flawlessly french-braided) “he sends money sometimes, six months ago he called, drunk, sobbing about missing our little girl…” she sighs, and Bellamy’s never heard her sound so tired. “He asked if I would introduce them, but I said no.”_

_And now Abby’s voice has a thread of steel when she replies,_

_“That was for the best.”_

_“He’ll only break her heart and let her down, just like he did to me. And I...can’t let that happen to her.”_

_Bellamy’s gone, down the corridor, out the doors, Clarke scrambling after him._

_“Bellamy!” She calls, “Bellamy, wait! What’s wrong?”_

_“She lied to me!” He cries, “she lied to me, told me she didn’t know who Octavia”s father was! Like...a million times, she just...lied.”_

_Clarke approaches him like he’s a wounded animal, first putting her hand on his shoulder, then drawing him close. The stress and fear of the day collide with the hurt of the lie over his head, a thundercloud._

_“She lied,” and he’s sobbing now, into Clarke’s tee shirt with no shame at all, and she holds him as he sinks into the grass, “my mom is a liar…”_

_They swear to always tell each other the truth, that day._

_And that is a promise they never break._

“I don’t want to let her go,” Bellamy’s voice is shaky, but the truth has always been a gift he can give Clarke, “because she’s my last connection to you.”

“That’s been your choice, Bellamy. Not mine.”

“I thought you wouldn’t want—because I—and even in your letter it says—“

“Yeah Bellamy, please respect the letter I wrote when I was at the lowest point of my entire life, and not what I’m saying right now.” Her sarcasm is dripping from each word, even his name is lined with flames.

“Which part of what you’re saying right now?”

“The part where I still love you!” Sharp, pointed. “The part where I’ve spent too long waiting for you to figure your shit out. I’ll wait for you, Bellamy, but I can’t do this forever. I feel like I’m hanging off a cliff and every few months someone pries another finger off. I’ve built myself back up, brick by brick, but it's like I’m missing something essential, doors or windows or...or…” she’s tangled up in the metaphor.

“Toilets?” Bellamy gives her a half smile.

“You can’t joke yourself out of this one,” she says, almost mournful, “where we are isn’t funny.”

“I can’t be your campfire anymore,” tears are running again, Bellamy hasn't cried this much since his mother died. “I can’t even keep myself warm.”

“Maybe it’s _my_ turn to keep _you_ warm. I’ve learned how to support people without burning myself up.” Clarke’s got her stubborn face on, a familiar set to her jaw he didn’t know he missed.

“I still love you, too,” he runs his thumb across the sharp edge of her jaw, fingers up the soft line of her throat. “We need like, a hundred hours of therapy, you know that, right?”

He’d have said anything to coax the real laugh she gives. Nothing bitter, nothing strained, something new and bright. From their spot on the floor she leans forward, and he meets the smiling curve of her lips with his own.

They’re still there when Murphy throws the door open, scowling, and demands,

“What are you doing here, Blake?!”

What are you doing here, _now_?

Kissing Clarke Griffin, of course, and never letting her go again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all know it'll always be a happy ending with me, right?
> 
> Love my boy Bellamy telling Clarke he loves her but they have a lot of work to do. 
> 
> This fic was sitting, like, 90% done in my drafts folder for approximately 100 years. When I was like maybe, 75% finished with it, I got caught up in wondering to myself how this situation looked from Murphy and Raven's point of view, and started playing with that idea...(60% done, of course) but then I got caught up in the bubblegum of Darling, Let Me Wreck You...anyway, I literally finished the last 10% of this while I was standing in line at the post office for an hour and a half this morning and then edited it on my laptop when I got home. (Thank you, Google Docs, you are a true blessing.)
> 
> Please forgive me fans of Darling, Let Me Wreck You, your chapter was delayed for this fic, but in process! 
> 
> And now, I think, I'm just gonna hold my breath until y'all tell me this turned out okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I know what you're thinking--Jackie, why are you posting another WIP when you're not finished with Darling, Let Me Wreck You? Well, because this one's mostly finished and only has 2 chapters, and I've been itching for some validation on it, mostly.
> 
> I really hesitated to add blame dynamics to this story, because Clarke's attempt is no one's fault. But having been at the center of a group of friends when something similar happened, Miller blaming Bellamy--and Bellamy blaming himself--felt very realistic.


End file.
